


The Liberation of Harry Potter

by butnotdrowning, snarkbunny



Series: Resistance [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Again, Draco proves himself trustworthy, Draco-centric, Dystopia, Gen, HP: EWE, Harry proves himself reckless, No Fluff, No Smut, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post - Deathly Hallows, Post-Hogwarts, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butnotdrowning/pseuds/butnotdrowning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkbunny/pseuds/snarkbunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... but what happened to Harry?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Liberation of Harry Potter

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Resistance series, but can be read as a standalone

Less than a month into my career as Umbridge’s Poster Boy, I come home to find Granger perched on my coffee table, _sans_ Weasley. They are, of course, hatching a plan to spring Potter from Azkaban. I have the pleasure of informing her that Potter is still being held in the Ministry cells, courtesy of Umbridge's wish for revenge through Veritaserum, her plans foiled by me diluting the potion and Potter proving surprisingly resistant.

Granger brightens up at this, but has more on her mind. She has figured out they put the same trace on Potter's name as they previously used on Old Snakeface, and she wants me to find a way to break it from the inside.

"Honestly, Granger," I sneer at her, not yet able to rid myself of an old habit. "Did it not occur to you to use a codename?" Her flabbergasted expression makes it clear it did not. Such are the limitations of a superior intellect; you get so focused on solving a problem that you don’t see when it would be easier to walk around it.

"Occam's razor, Granger. You should read some Muggle philosophy." She is clearly dumbfounded, which pleases me no end. She rallies quickly, unfortunately.

"Malfoy, I need to find out how much I can trust you. And I hope you have a suggestion for that as well."

"What, my word as a gentleman is not sufficient?"

"Not really, no." She suppresses a grin, and I have a sudden memory of hitting her in the neck with an extremely slushy snowball. Oh well. Nothing to lose by telling the truth.

\---

Father taught me not to underestimate my enemies. He knew that Albus Dumbledore was the most formidable danger we would face, and it would never do to believe otherwise. From the beginning, he could also see the very real danger that lay in Potter, undisciplined half-breed though he was.

My father was too smart to buy into the idea that women were less dangerous than men; nobody with two brain cells to rub together who ever met my aunt Bella could believe that. Father was one of the cleverest men on our side, and his tactical mind was appreciated by the Dark Lord himself.

But as far back as I can remember, he told me that Mudbloods were lesser beings in all the ways that counted. That they were weak and stupid and only able to learn slowly. That their magic was diluted, that their loyalty was divided at best, and that they, if they were allowed to live and breed unchecked, eventually would spell doom for our entire way of living.

I was an arrogant and self-important little shit at eleven, as indeed I've been my whole life, but even I had to concede (only to myself, of course) that Granger was by far the cleverest student at Hogwarts, and probably cleverer than all of the teachers as well, possibly excluding the Headmaster. I was stupid enough to underestimate her fierceness a time or two, and got punched soundly for it, but I didn't realize until our last year in school just how ruthless she could be. No matter how smart she was, how fierce and strong, I had still always seen her as essentially a good girl – a girl who wanted to please her parents and teachers, who looked forward to a steady job and a decent husband and a pleasant family. When I heard, months after the fact, that she had Obliviated her own parents and sent them off to the colonies, I was floored.

It was probably at that moment I realised I would have to change horses. My first impulse was to wonder how nobody on my side – not even Father – had seen what she was capable of. My second was looking around at my fellow soldiers, as it were. Crabbe. Pansy. Goyle. Why was it that my side had so many morons? Why was it that the smartest and most cunning and tactical ones were on the wrong side? The solution was staring me impatiently in the eye when I finally managed to see it: The reason all the stupid ones were on my side was that my side was the stupid one.

This realisation made me question the basis of my former side's prejudices as well. The wizarding population is small, somewhere between ten and fifteen thousand in Britain. Of those, less than a thousand are truly pureblood. If we should limit our future generations to ourselves, we would be extinct within a century, or become too inbred to procreate. And just like that, by doing the maths, I had punched a hole in my childhood's belief system that I could drive the Hogwarts Express through. This was how I realised I was a lot more stupid than I had thought.

Admittedly, it took me a while to come to terms with this. I could absolutely not discuss it with Father, and I was not sure what I could trust my mother with. But by the time the Golden Trio showed up at the manor accompanied by snatchers, I had no choice but to deny any knowledge of them. And when Potter grabbed my wand, I let go.

\---

While I talk, Granger keeps nodding and making small approving noises. For my own sanity's sake, I downplay her role in my conversion as much as possible, but she is nevertheless visibly pleased.

"Your logic is sound, Malfoy," she says, and I can't help myself preening a bit. "But how do you feel about it, morally?"

Oh dear. She is still an innocent.

"I have no morals, Granger. I am not a nice person. But I do what I have to do, bugger anyone else. And I do what is right, as in correct."

She nods and reaches into her bag.

"That will do," she says, and apparently, that is me sorted.

She hands me a piece of blank parchment.

"I will communicate time and place of meetings between us on this, approximately every fortnight. You will have at least 48 hours of warning. Any messages for me you write on the parchment. I check my copy every few hours. Keep the Galleon for emergency purposes – it works both ways as well, so carry it in your pocket. It will warm up when I need to reach you." She rattles the speech off at an impressive speed, sounding like she has made it a thousand times before. Which she probably has.

"Your first mission will be to figure out a way to get our friend out of the country, preferably to North America. You have four weeks to come up with a feasible plan. Questions?"

I shake my head.

"What about the code name?" I ask.

"Oh. Any suggestions?" Her mind has clearly moved on to other matters.

"Well. He was the media's darling for a time, so Darling would probably be easy to remember." I manage this with an impressively straight face.

Her grin is genuinely amused as she puts her cloak on.

"You really don't like him, do you? Darling it is." And then she is gone.

\---

Potter is annoyingly well guarded, but with my inside access and careful timing I should be able to get him out of the Ministry quite easily. Our well-known enmity will keep me safe from interrogation for a little while, so I can keep him in my flat for a few days. Assuming we don’t kill each other, of course.

My best bet would be to get him to Ireland. I am certain Father's old contacts can be trusted to accept an unknown piece of cargo on a ship bound for Boston or Port of Salem. They will know better than to ask questions, probably assuming I need to get rid of something incriminating temporarily.

The real problem is getting past the border barriers. I can find their weaknesses from the inside, but any breakage is bound to be investigated thoroughly, and I can't risk being connected with that. Hopefully, Granger will have someone on hand.

I sit down with my parchment to compose a message that will be clear to Granger and inconsequential to anyone else.

_Darling,_   
_I can't wait to see you again. I have made some lovely plans for our getaway, and I hope you are ready to cross some barriers in our relationship._   
_Love, D._

Less than ten minutes later, the Galleon burns in my pocket, glowing a message:

HAVE BRKR. YOURS, 15 MIN?

I confirm, and start clearing up some of the clutter in my living room.

\---

Granger comes in through the window precisely fifteen minutes later. She's had to either levitate or climb, both impressive feats. I was expecting her in the fireplace, but there is every reason for her to be careful, as she has replaced Potter on the top of the Most Wanted list, above even MacNair.

"Paranoid, Malfoy?" She waves the parchment at me.

"No more than you," I reply, looking pointedly at the window. Between the two of us, we will probably think of everything.

"Outline?", she asks, settling in the armchair. I explain the plan in broad strokes, and she fills in with details of a safe house in Ireland and people to escort him from the border to the ship. She clearly does not trust him to resist any half-baked and harebrained scheme of his own.

"A Thursday will be best. I've checked the guard schedules, and the Aurors on that shift are the most dimwitted of the lot. The ship leaves on Mondays, and the border wards are at their weakest on Sundays, which leaves plenty of time for five jumps through … less officially sanctioned apparition points."

She nods and writes down a message on her parchment. "Ten days from now good with you?"

"The sooner the better," I nod. "It would probably be best if you were here when I bring him back with me, he's bound to kick up a fuss. And someone will need to come with us to the border and hand him over. I have to be seen elsewhere when the wards break."

"Agreed. You plan to make the jump from Holyhead?"

"Too well guarded. I think brooms from Holywell south of Newquay is the best option, the wards are notoriously glitchy along the coastline there, and a break will be less noticeable. Could be Aberystwyth would be better, but the Welsh border..."

"Holywell it is. I'll get the brooms and the escort."

It is a solid plan. She shakes my hand and promises to be waiting when I return with Potter.

\---

Of course something would come up. I am not lucky, in general.

Tuesday morning, the Ministry is buzzing with the news that Potter will be moved to Azkaban after lunch. Well, _fuck_. Getting him out of there will be a lot more difficult, if not impossible. There is nothing else for it, I have to throw Peterson to the wolves. I have known for a while that he has faked his documentation and is not, in fact, a pureblood, which means he definitely should not have a Sub-Department Head position under Umbridge's inane set of regulations.

The report is ready and waiting. I merely add time and date, and ship it off to the Minister's Office.

I write a new love letter on Granger's parchment.

_Darling,_   
_Change of plans, I will need to leave earlier than anticipated. Can we meet for lunch at my place?_   
_Love, D._

I pop her a quick message by Galleon to check her parchment, and wait for all hell to break loose. And sure enough, a mere fifteen minutes later, Umbridge throws a fit of epic proportions, storming off to Peterson's office. Predictably, he puts up a good fight, and the Aurors come running.

I amble along to the cells, merely needing to Confound a pair of junior Aurors on the way, and toss the keys onto Potter's stomach through the bars so he can reach through and unlock the door himself. No need to give away even a trace of my own magic down here.

"Come along, then. I'll bring you to Granger," I tell his suspicious frown. He relents, and we walk calmly past the Aurors, who are examining the undersides of their chairs. They will be fine in ten minutes or so.

I push Potter into the first available broom cupboard, explaining the situation as briefly as possible. He is still suspicious of my motives, and it’s a relief to find him less naïve than I had thought. Perhaps he has learned something from the war after all. I put the heaviest Disillusionment charm I’m capable of on him, and he trails after me back to my office, settling into a corner to wait.

I have been gone less than ten minutes, easily explained by a trip to the bathroom if necessary, but there are no inquiries about my absence. Sooner than expected, a harassed-looking Auror  pops his head in.

“Pardon, Mr. Malfoy, but we need to check every office in the building.” He looks properly apologetic, and I plaster my most condescending look on my face as he explains Potter’s mysterious disappearance. I accept haughtily, and his search of my office is pleasingly superficial.

I am gathering my papers to lock them away before going to lunch when the Minister herself clacks into my office on her horrid pink heels, settling primly in my visitor’s chair.

“My dear Mr. Malfoy,” she simpers, and I have really no idea where this is going. “You are such an exemplary young man, and your ingenious discovery of Peterson’s betrayal is really the only good thing to happen today.”

I can feel a furious burst of energy from Potter huddled in the corner, but the Minister is thankfully not as perceptive. At least he has the good sense to remain silent.

“However, this leaves the Ministry in a vulnerable position again,” she continues, “and I would like to offer you the position. Such an intelligent young man, and of course, there is no doubt about _your_ blood status, and of your dedication to our noble cause …”

She drones on forever, and I spend the entirety of it praying for Potter to keep his temper in check. I can only imagine what he is thinking. Not that I particularly care, but getting him out of the Ministry before he explodes will be an accomplishment at this point.

After my graceful acceptance of her offer, she pinches my cheek and leers at me, and finally leaves. Just in time for my lunch date. Flooing is out of the question, as a second person would be registered, and all records will be examined to within an inch of their non-existing lives. As the anti-apparition wards are at their strongest right now, if the Auror Department has any sense, it will have to be the main entrance. This is going to be be incredibly risky, and Potter will have to quell his presence if we are to get out in one piece.

I ward the door and put up a silencing charm, luckily a regular occurrence when handling the files of questionable personnel, and remove the charm on Potter. He is positively glaring at me, no doubt for what he finds to be valid reasons, but there is really no time for his righteous fury at the moment.

“Listen closely, you temperamental imbecile,” I hiss. “You may yell all you like when we are out of here, but right now, my only concern is to get you out without incident. The only way is through the main entrance, in all probability right through the tightest security that has ever been up around this miserable place, and to do that, you will have to trust me for half an hour. Can you manage that?”

He glowers away like I did not break him out of a cell mere hours earlier, but nods wordlessly.

“Right. Dampen down your magic as much as you can and focus on that. Thankfully, the Minister is as sensitive as a spoon, or she would have felt you here earlier. I’ll Disillusion you, that’s our best option. Stay within touching distance of me, do not let anyone get close enough to touch, and for fuck’s sake, get control over your bloody emotions.”

\---

The walk out is the most nerve-wrecking experience of my life, including having the Dark Lord drinking gin and tonic in my library, but a haughty demeanour and a superior attitude will get you far in life. Even, it turns out, out of a Ministry in lockdown, fugitive plastered to your back. I pick up a sandwich and a flat white from my favourite lunch café, and use their floo to my place, just like I would any other day. Granger is leaning on the windowsill as we stumble out of the fireplace.

Potter immediately starts yelling, almost incoherent with fury. Mostly about Peterson; he seems to be under the impression that I had ratted on him to improve my own position in the Ministry. Granted, I probably would have, had I thought that would be the outcome, but certainly not for the reasons he has in mind. I go to the kitchen to eat my sandwich in peace – I’ll have to be back at the office in less than an hour, so I might as well eat.

The yelling stops abruptly, and Granger walks into the kitchen, putting on the kettle. At my raised eyebrow, she volunteers shortly: “I stunned him.”

Well. He can hardly have been more stunned than me. “I don’t have the time to listen to him,” she goes on. “He has not entirely grasped the situation, it seems, and someone else will come in and look after him when you go back to the office. He’ll be calmer in five minutes, so that leaves you time to summarise. And then you can listen to him.”

This is not exactly an enticing prospect, but I'm in no position to argue. I explain briefly, and she seems satisfied. As I have already realised, I will have to keep Potter in my apartment for the coming week, as there is no need to jeopardize more than necessary of the original plan. It is a good one, of course – it's mine.

She pours two cups of tea and carries them to the living room, me sauntering after her. After releasing Potter from her spell, she studies him for a while, and apparently judging him calm enough, she disappears through the window.

“Neville will be here in twenty minutes. He’s been briefed,” she says from right outside, feet on the ledge. “Behave yourselves until then, and I will see both of you tonight.” I lean out to see her shimmy down the drainpipe like a spider, and walk calmly around the corner as if nothing had happened.  I turn back to Potter, who is, predictably, scowling, but mercifully no longer yelling.

“All right,” I say resignedly. “What do you object to about this? Peterson?” He nods tersely. “It was a matter of time before someone found out. He had faked his credentials, and not very well, and as it was my mission to get you out, I had to sacrifice him.”

“And gain a lucrative position in the process?” He is clearly not prepared to believe me on value of my honest face, and I can’t really blame him.

“I will not pretend that was not a fortuitous outcome, but I could hardly have predicted that. You were supposed to be moved to Azkaban by lunch, and I had to act quickly, or not get you out at all.“

We both sit down, sipping our tea, waiting for Longbottom. That it’s him is not actually surprising; he has gone from bumbling idiot to self-assured defender of the weak in the span of a year, and he has never made a secret of where his loyalties lie. I make a mental note to check his status on the wanted list.

The silence is tense and uncomfortable, but I refuse to take the initiative. One would think a _thank you for getting me out of prison_ would be in order, but no such thing seems forthcoming.

After what feels like months sitting in absolute silence, Longbottom’s arrival is a mercy. He walks right up to me out of the fireplace, grabbing my hand in a firm shake, and proceeds to give me a manly sort of hug. It is only my considerable self control that saves me from having to pick my jaw up from the carpet. Longbottom has grown considerably taller than me, and is broad in the shoulder and with no trace of puppy fat. He has elected to wear a black leather jacket with his muggle jeans, making him look roguish and slightly dangerous. His voice is still gentle, however.

“Thank you, Malfoy. We could never have got him out without you,” he murmurs. As I turn to look at Potter, I smirk a little at his shell-shocked look.

“Thanks, Longbottom,” I reply. “I’ll be back by five. Thai fine for dinner?” He nods, and I hurl out of my flat as if it is on fire.

\---

I have severely mixed feelings about coming back to my office. On one hand, I want to spend as little time with Potter as possible, but I also want nothing to do with my new position before I've had time to think. Head of Muggleborn Regulation and Control, and not yet twenty? I would have laughed, had it not been me. And to think I had believed Umbridge had reached her limits when she put the Muggleborn Committee under the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. One could only hope she would not get any more insane than this.

I am sure Granger is happy – after all, I will gain another level of security clearance and access – but the balancing act necessary to maintain cover in this position makes me want to curl up inside a drawer and whimper. Somehow I manage to accept congratulations, most of them grudging, throughout the day, and I barely remember to stop by the exchange office to withdraw muggle money from my Gringotts vault. The cashier looks suspicious, as always, and I, as always, wave his suspicions away with a wink and a “Know your enemy”.

When I arrive back at my apartment, laden down with takeaway boxes from the muggle Thai down the road, I am simultaneously anxious, stressed and exhausted. And too bloody hot. Granger, Longbottom and Potter are sitting on my couch, drinking lager straight from the bottle, chatting unconcernedly. I feel somehow betrayed, without knowing why. Longbottom, who has apparently grown into a gentleman, jumps to his feet to help me with the food and carries it into the kitchen.

“I need a shower,” I grunt, somewhat uncivilly. Granger appears to have read my mind, or perhaps just my very visible mood, and just nods and goes into the kitchen, presumably to help Longbottom with the food. Potter does not move an inch, much less speak a word of greeting. _Why do I even bother_ , I fume inwardly, heading for the bathroom.

Showering helps immensely. The warm water smooths out the knots in my neck, and I feel nearly relaxed as I amble back into the living room clad in my favourite, too worn black jeans and a threadbare grey t-shirt. Potter is the only one who registers surprise at my ensemble by raising an unusually eloquent eyebrow, but I am pleased to see they have waited for me before eating. The food is piping hot under a subtle heating spell – Longbottom’s, I register with surprise – and the smell makes my mouth water. I have ordered a wide variety of strength and types of food, and we quickly agree to share it all between us.

It soon becomes apparent Potter is not accustomed to the Thai combination of chili peppers and ginger, as I can see the sweat trickling down his face. Longbottom and Granger, however, scarf down the bird’s eye chilis in fish sauce as if there is no tomorrow. Fishing out a bottle of lager from the crate that has somehow ended up on my Axminster, I sigh contentedly and curl up in the armchair.

“Don’t fall asleep, Malfoy,” Granger admonishes. “We have a lot of work to do.” The three of us let out a synchronised sigh which makes all of us look surprised and Granger snicker.

“I’ll start talking, then, shall I?” Granger asks rhetorically. I nod, Potter belches and Longbottom punches him in the arm.

“Right. You,” she says, pointing at Potter, “will have to stay here, indoors, until Sunday. Then, Neville will be back, and we will get you out of the country. Neither of you speak your name out loud, there is a trace on it.” Longbottom looks like he has just received the secret to the universe. These people seem to be more eloquent when they don’t speak at all.

“We use the codename Darling when we need a name,” Potter squeaks indignantly, but Granger ploughs on relentlessly. “I have set up a schedule for the babysitters,” Potter looks murderous, “and we will stick to the original plan. And you can stop glaring at Malfoy – if it hadn’t been for his exceptionally decisive action, we would have had no hope of getting you out.”

“I can stay,” Longbottom volunteers. “I have reassigned or rescheduled my other … tasks, and it would be less detectable than having a cadre of Undesirables trooping in and out of here. If that’s okay with you, Draco.” I am surprised to be pleased by his use of my given name.

“Of course,” I smile. Granger and Potter look as if they have been hit in the head by the moon. This, naturally, pleases me even more. I guide Longbottom – Neville – through my apartment, pointing out the quirks and idiosyncrasies that comes with prolonged use of magic in a closed space: The aggressive kitchen cupboard, the slight restlessness of the carpet, and the hiccoughing bathroom sink. Meanwhile, Granger is outlining the plan to an increasingly mutinous Potter, explaining why he has to leave for America instead of joining the fight.

“I am not a child!” he hisses, “And I would think I have proven that I am capable!” Granger sighs.

“Yes, but you are too valuable to risk. Also, we will need to be subtle. You are powerful, but subtlety and patience are not your strong suits. We will need you for the endgame, and you are far too recognisable to do undercover work.” Potter looks indignant and on the verge of protesting when I interfere.

“The entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement, not only the Aurors, have your magical signature imprinted,” I explain. “You cannot move on the streets for risk of being recognised, even with disguises or invisibility cloak. The only reason we got out at all was the amount of different magical presences, and the fact that you were under my disillusionment charm. And the fact that I am, for the moment, above suspicion,” I add.

“It is vital that we keep it that way,” Granger says decisively. “We may not have planned for a promotion,” I am secretly pleased about the we, “but the entire thing could not possibly have turned out better.”

“And what about poor Peterson?” Potter is clearly not done with that subject.

“ _Poor_ Peterson? Have you met the man?” He shakes his head impatiently, as if that hardly matters. “He forged his papers to gain position. He singlehandedly delivered more than twenty muggleborns to the Committee to save his own hide. He turned his own cousin in, for Merlin’s sake! I am not saying that I was happy to turn him in, I wouldn’t wish the camps on anyone, but the man was hardly innocent.” Potter appears mollified by my rant, for some reason. Had he paused to think, he would have realised that I have just done the exact same thing – turned someone else in to achieve my own ends. I see no reason to point this out, but Granger’s calculating glance suggests that she is well aware. She has every interest in letting it slide, though, and doesn’t comment. That girl should probably have been in Slytherin.

We all settle down for another beer. Granger is updating Potter on events outside the cells in the Ministry, while Neville and I chat amicably. His acceptance of me is surprising, but pleasantly so. Neville has grown self-assured, and has apparently set aside any schoolboy grudges towards his former bully. I’m not quite sure just how to respond to that, and try to bring it up as we are putting away the plates in the kitchen.

“Listen, Neville,” I start, suddenly uncertain of myself.

“No need, Draco,” he replies. These people are uncannily good at knowing my thoughts without actually using legilimency. I will have to work on schooling my expression. “I know where you come from, and how difficult it can be to turn away from your old beliefs. You have always been honest about your sympathies, and now you are on our side. That’s good enough.” I am feeling a bit overwhelmed by his generosity.

“I’m not sure I deserve your forgiveness,” I say, feeling uncharacteristically humble.

“Deserved or not, you’ve got it,” he smiles and punches me playfully (and painfully) in the arm.

In the living room, Granger is preparing to leave.

“Does everyone scheduled for coming have a Galleon with your charm on it?” I ask. She nods, and I continue: “I will need to adjust my wards, they have been far too open recently. Luckily, Heads are encouraged to restrict access to their homes, so it won’t be questioned. I’ll set the wards to let anyone in possession of their Galleon past.” Granger nods again.

“I’ll try to reach everyone, and I will be back Saturday,” she says, and jumps out the window as is her habit. Neville has unpacked two fluffy white mattresses and is in the process of shaking out purple sleeping bags. He and Potter clearly intend to share the living room floor, and I am more than happy to keep my own bed. I can hear them murmur quietly as I fall asleep, and when I leave for work the next morning, they lie as fat larvae in their sleeping bags, in identical positions on their stomachs.

\---

The next days pass in a blur of protocol to read, files to sign off on and personnel to brief. I get home exhausted to Potter’s cooking, which he is good at, and Neville’s chess, which he is not good at. The crate of lager keeps refilling itself. Neville decides to teach us poker, and from Potter’s quickly improving game I suspect him of being more familiar with it than he'd claimed. I learn that Neville is the one I knew as the Breaker, helping some unnamed individual transporting people across the border. From what little he tells, I gather he is good at it.

Friday, I skive off work early, only to find my kitchen invaded by a red-haired brute.

“Weasley,” I say, although I am uncertain of which one it is. All that red hair can throw a man.

“Call me George,” he replies, “it prevents confusion.” I shake his hand, to his – and my – surprise.

“Draco,” I say. “Confusion is inevitable.” He snorts. I recognise him as one of the Weasley twins, but somehow, he doesn’t look like I remember them, always with a careless grin and a joke at the ready. This man looks grown up, and not in a good way – more like he has aged ten years in a few months, with a worn expression around his eyes and a cold sneer on his lips. It seems … off. He makes me uncomfortable in a way even the Death Eaters never managed to.

“It seems my services are not needed,” he says, voice devoid of emotion. “I’ll take my leave. I am making a potion that will adjust your appearance – milder than Polyjuice, but it works until you take the antidote. I haven’t completed testing, but in case of an emergency, I’d like you to have it.” He hands two small bottles to Potter, one with a bright pink liquid, and one with a light blue.

“No!” Neville and I chorus. I relinquish speaking rights to him.

“An untested potion is not a good idea in this situation,” he presses, looking as anxious as he did in first year. No doubt he, too, is thinking of Potter’s infamous recklessness. “We need to have control of the situation, and this is not the way to do it.” He is clearly ready to make Potter agree by sheer determination, but George interrupts.

“He has the option. It’s up to him. I’m going back home. See you, Neville. _Draco_ ,” he adds with a sneer. He twists and disapparates.

I try to calm my nerves with a cup of tea, while Potter and Neville take their argument to the living room. Why had the Weasley – George – made me so disconcerted? He was not being threatening, or even impolite. He just seemed so empty, like he had no purpose and no will to go on. It’s not even the grey despair I am so familiar with from the last two years, it’s just … nothing. Strange that I should find that so unsettling.

The discussion is still in full force in the living room, Neville quietly determined, Potter increasingly angry. I have no idea where he finds the energy or the motivation for all that fury; one would think he’d get tired of his own voice. I certainly am. I leave them to it, since nothing I say will sway Potter in the least, rather the opposite. Now, there’s an idea. If he does not cease and desist within the hour, I will do my best to poke him into submission by reverse psychology.

I am on my second cup of tea and nibbling on a biscuit when Neville joins me, wordlessly pleading for a cup. I pour him one, and he gives me a friendly smile.

“Something about George worried you,” he says, and I nod. “Well, he has been through a lot. As we all have,” he adds hurriedly, “but I’m not sure if you know his brother died at Hogwarts. His twin brother, Fred.” Oh. That would explain a lot. Twins always share a bond, but these had been exceptionally close. I spent the last four years at school perfecting my legilimency skills (yes, yes, morally reprehensible, I’m sure), and Fred’s was the first mind outside my own house I had dared to touch. He didn’t notice me at all, most likely because he was so used to another presence already. Not that any of the Weasleys could succeed at proper legilimency, they were all more for brute force than subtlety. It was more basic than that, like a piece of both their minds was embedded in the other. My aunt Bellatrix, a brute force practitioner herself, once tested my occlumency by trying to rip at my mind. I still remember the pain vividly, and to even imagine what his brother being killed would have done to George makes me shiver involuntarily.  

“I am not going to ask how you know whatever it is you know,” Neville says quietly, “but you certainly look like you understand.”

“I will tell you if you want,” I reply, clearly having taken leave of my senses because of his willing acceptance of me. “But I’d rather not right now.”

“All right. Up for poker?” He rises from the table, and we move to the living room where Potter is apparently trying to make the wall crumble by staring at it.

“I can’t wait ‘till Hermione gets here,” he hisses.

“The one who stunned you when you behaved like the brat you are? I can see why,” I snap at him.

“Shut up, both of you. We will play poker, we will drink beer, and we will manage to not hex each other for one more day. Clear?” Neville Longbottom, the peacemaker. What is my life coming to? I am a bit unnerved by my promise to tell him about my more questionable experiments, truth be told.

We play poker until Potter starts slurring, I can’t make out the cards clearly, and Neville falls asleep in his chair. So that goes rather well.

\---

The next morning greets me with a magnificent hangover and the feeling that something furry has died in my mouth. I go into the living room to yell at someone, preferably Potter, but he is lying in a heap on the sofa, surrounded by empty bottles, while Neville sleeps serenely in his sleeping bag. I hiss in frustration, drink all the remaining hangover potion, and try to shower as loudly as possible.

Apparently, it works, or possibly Neville has woken up by himself, because as I return, he is already harassing Potter into making breakfast.

“We have no idea when Hermione will get here, you idiot,” he yells, and Potter moans pathetically. I nearly feel bad for not leaving any potion for him, but the feeling is thankfully fleeting.

“What about him, then?” The miserable heap previously known as Potter tilts his head at me.

“It’s his fucking flat, you complete moron! And he risked himself to save you, so shut up and hop to it!” Goodness. A righteously indignant Neville Longbottom is evidently not to be trifled with. Potter looks chastised and sets to work, and Neville starts cleaning up the living room.

“I’ll do that, Neville, you grab the shower.” I am feeling a lot better from his yelling at Potter. “I’ve taken my revenge by finishing off the hangover potion anyway.” He lets out a bark of laughter and goes off, demonstrably fishing out a flask from his pocket, undoubtedly filled with more potion, as he leaves the room.

\---

Breakfast is excellent, although the mood is subdued. Neville relents and gives Potter a sip of his potion, and afterwards, he slinks off to the shower while Neville and I clear up. We have just finished with the cleaning charms, poking at the sofa cushions to puff them back up, when Granger is suddenly in the room. She has to have come in through the window, as usual, but she is becoming uncannily sneaky. She and Neville have a very short, mumbled conversation, which makes me realise he has probably been reporting to her at some point. I raise an eyebrow at them, and Neville nods. As soon as Potter emerges from the bathroom, she hauls him into my bedroom and closes the door behind her. There is no sound from them, so I assume she has cast a silencing charm. Neville and I retreat to the kitchen for yet another cup of tea.

“So… About the George thing,” I start, hesitantly. Neville nods encouragingly, and I dive into it, telling him about occlumency lessons with Aunt Bella, working on enhancing my natural ability to compartmentalise and lock away my emotions, discovering my aptitude for legilimency as self defense against my psychotic aunt. I do not realise how awful it all sounds until I see his horrified expression. I break off and look away.

“No, Draco,” he tries to placate me, “I just didn’t realise how bad it had been for you. And for how long.”

“I don’t need pity,” I snarl at him, immediately regretting it. He has never done anything to me, and I am surprised that it is not me he’s horrified of.

“Well, you have my sympathy,” he says, and I dare to look at him again. He is smiling. I’ll be damned. I have no idea why someone as generous, brave and forgiving as him wants to be my friend, but at least I have the wits to embrace it. I smile back, and tell him about the piece of Fred within George’s mind, and the pain it must have caused when Fred died. He pales visibly.

“I really think you should talk to George about this,” he muses. “None of us understands what he’s going through, and we are all a bit messed up anyway. Well, you are as well,” he grins at my hissed _Thanks_ , “but it would do him good.”

“He will kill me,” I state flatly. “He didn’t exactly give me permission to poke around in his head, you know.”

“I’ll talk to him. We are staying together in Scotland, so I’ll find a good time. And I won’t let him see you until he’s gotten used to the idea.” I feel unnerved by his suggestion, but can’t seem to find any arguments.

\---

We gather in the living room, Potter looking subdued and Granger quietly fuming.

“Let’s go over the plan again,” she says, her voice calm and undisturbed. “We all stay here until we leave tomorrow morning. Neville goes ahead of us to Holywell. Malfoy and I put the disillusion on together, to make the signature harder to detect. We take him together as far as Newquay, after which Malfoy jumps back to London to be seen in a public place. The two of us then meet Neville at Holywell, where I jump to Aberystwyth to divert the border guards, and then on to Sheffield. I’ll meet up with Malfoy back here Sunday night. You and Neville,” she addresses Potter, “will go by broom to Kinsale, where Seamus is meeting you with one of Malfoy’s contacts. Five jumps to Westport, at intervals during the night, pack you up in the crate, ship you off to Salem. Bring a book.”

Granger refuses to play poker, so she and I watch the other two play chess until dinner - pizza, which Neville volunteers to pick up. The mood is subdued, and we turn in early. Granger elects to share my bed, and Potter’s scandalised look makes the rest of us snigger a bit.

“I’ll try to control myself, Potter,” I state drily. He does not look reassured. It is almost painfully decent, though, both of us covered in proper pyjamas, remaining entirely silent and not sleeping a wink. I am extremely nervous, but I can't put my finger on a weak point in the plan.

\---

I should have known the weak point would be Potter himself. Neville has gone ahead to Holywell, and Granger has popped out for the muggle papers, when I hear a muffled thump from the living room. Potter, suddenly with smooth, brown hair and no scar, is thrashing on the floor, skin unnaturally red, gasping for breath.

I feel the blood leaving my face, and can’t think of anything to do but put him under a stasis charm and yelling for Granger. Obviously, she can’t hear me, and I remember my coin, hastily pushing through the message GET HERE NOW, before dropping to my knees beside Potter. The vial beside him betrays his minor mutiny, but why on earth the potion would do this to him, I have no idea. Could George have intended to poison him? I brush the idea aside immediately. Granger pops back into the room, for once by apparition and not through the window, and immediately grasps both the situation and the vial.

“Poppy seeds,” she says, sniffing the bottle. “Anaphylactic shock.” I have no idea what she is talking about, but I relax slightly as she clearly knows what to do. “Stasis?” she asks, and I nod. “I’ll be right back,” and she twirls on the spot and disappears.

I stare at the frozen Potter, not even angry with him. I would feel put upon as well, in his situation, but I hope I would have the good sense to not drink untested potions in the spirit of rebellion. Granger is back within the span of five minutes, and I lift the charm as she stabs him with a short cylinder.

“Epinephrine autoinjector,” she says, as if that makes any sense whatsoever. “Muggle medicine?” she tries, and yes, I can accept that. She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Right. Last-minute revision of plan. I need tea.” I hurry to the kitchen and let her think it through. My mind is not working properly at the moment, and I stare at the kettle while it boils, willing myself to calmness.

At the first sip, Granger has the plan ready.

“I’ll get Seamus to bring a muggle doctor to the second apparition point, that’s the longest wait. He should be fine until then. I’ve put him under a mild sedation spell; he can stand, but not much else. We’ll have to take him to Neville together by side-along, and he and I will have to jump rather than using the brooms. It’s a bit far across water, but we have no other option. Neville is strong and I am precise, so it will be fine. Probably. You need to get back to London immediately, and I’ll hold off the break until the scheduled time. I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it back here tonight, but if I can’t, I will be here tomorrow at the latest.” I nod, already feeling anxious.

“All right,” she drains her cup. “Let’s go.”

\---

The first step goes without a hitch, and I am soon browsing the storefronts in Diagon Alley, waiting for Blaise, with whom I have planned dinner. He is, of course, late, but there are plenty of colleagues and acquaintances who see me, and by the time the break is scheduled, we are seated at a window table in Blaise’s favourite restaurant, sipping champagne.

It is a pleasant evening, filled with society gossip and giggling, but then, Blaise is always pleasant company. Unfortunately, he is also very perceptive, and I am positive he registers my unease. Fortunately, he does not comment, but he clearly has his own ideas about what’s going on.

When I get home, Granger is not there, and my parchment is empty. I stare at the wall until I realise I’m doing a Potter impression, and then I go to bed. For the second night running, I don’t sleep a wink. The words _It will be fine. Probably._ keep turning over in my head.

\---

Work on Monday is torture. It usually is, but two nights without sleep and a barrage of meetings specifically designed to torture me has made me ready to tear out my own eyeballs by the time I can leave.

Granger is not there.

I go out for a suspicious-looking dim sum, and when I get back, she is on my couch, looking perfectly fine. I feel my knees go weak, but pull myself together and go to make tea like a proper Englishman.

“Everything went fine,” she says. “Not a hitch. I got the report from Seamus this afternoon, our Darling is safely on the ship, and there are no lasting effects from the potion.” I nod weakly. The past week has been strange, to say the least, and I am so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open.

“I’ll kip on your couch, if that’s okay,” she says through the fog in my head, and I am barely able to nod. “I am leaving for Scotland in the morning, but I’ll be back next week, so we can work out an efficient way for you to report.” I have started nodding and can’t seem to stop, so I shuffle towards my bedroom with a mumbled “Good night”. It’s not even seven PM.

\---

When I get up the next morning, there is no trace of her ever having been there.

 


End file.
